Vie des Poulets
by Alex the Anachronistic
Summary: In a world where Voldemort vanquishes Harry, darkness takes over and death becomes the most desirable end for Hermione. However, she discovers a protector secretly on her side who wants to work bring light back to the world. He needs her help, though. HGS
1. Chapter 1

_DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. _

_This is the second edition of this chapter, thanks very much to my two glorious betas!_ white-hound _and _Aindel S. Druida, _both of whom have proved invaluable. I appreciate your help!_

**Vie des Poulets**

**Chapter 1**

"Harry Potter is dead."

"The Boy Who Lived has died!"

The cries rang through Diagon Alley with the agony of a thousand goodhearted souls behind them. The pain of a long hope lost, the permeating sense of defeat, the terror of unknown dangers were all evident in the faces of every man and woman.

Harry Potter, the hero of all the world of magic, had not been able to bring down whatever You-Know-Who had become. There was no point in caring for justice anymore. The last stronghold that society had upon the rim of tradition had been cut, sending it into the dark abyss of entropy. The common people were at a loss, more lost than they ever had been.

There was, of course, a certain number of people who cared nonetheless, cared more than the common people ever could care. These were, in consequence, the first ones to die; they impeded the terrified laymen as they flocked _en masse _towards the dark. They were killed in cold blood for the mere matter that they believed in an at least semi-democracy, that they wanted a genuine role in the structure of their government, that they desired even the slightest hint of difference from their comrades. These people knew they would rather die than forfeit their liberty, and so they did. Every person who had organized against Voldemort found themselves at a loss, especially those who did not trot in a docile manner into his fold upon the asking. When the tide turned after Harry's death, every person who remained in opposition to the great and terrible Dark Lord found as dismal a kismet awaiting them in the realms of despair that followed.

Hermione Jean Granger, however, found herself to be a blatant exception to the rule. After being sent to a prison camp in a location she thought might be Essex, she watched her friends go to be executed. One by one, they disappeared from the stifling single-room cell that held the fifty or so female supporters of the light that survived the initial raid on the Order of the Phoenix's safety bunker. With every day, as she expected to be escorted out, she instead remained, entrapped with her companions in the war, holding the knowledge that her life's true love Ronald Weasley was either dead or pledged to the role of lifelessness, and grieving for all that was lost.

Time passed in the prison, though slothlike, and after a month Hermione was called to order by a sour-faced matron. The girl, long expecting this summons, was ready for her departure. The matron said nothing to her, manacling the girl to her own wrist and dragging the her out into a strange bright morning sun. A bus sat, attentive, before them, and Hermione felt dread at the sight. She had been expecting one of the more idiotic, bumbling death eaters—perhaps someone she had known or been fond of that had changed sides almost too late in the game—to be at the ready to administer the _Avada Kedavra_. For this, she had been prepared, and when she saw this was not to be her fate, she grew fearful.

_Perhaps they are to execute me in public, and this is merely the transportation to my doom,_ she concluded to appease herself. So certain was she that her death was imminent, she did not even bother to consider that there might have been some slight chance of her recovering any degree of liberty. The matron offered no explanation to alleviate the multitude of questions broiling in Hermione's mind, and instead put her nose into her copy of _Witch's Weekly_. It struck Hermione that this particular woman was not the usual one who drew the prisoners away to the scaffold, but this notion did not alarm her remarkably.

_Doubtless it is because I was such a friend to Harry Potter, I am to be tortured to death in front of that beast Voldemort himself, and so instead of disposing of me quietly at the prison they sent this woman from across the country to fetch me for disposal. _

This, however, she was soon to discover was not the case.

The journey ended at a very sterile-looking facility in the middle of nowhere, as bland as a cement block in the remotest spot on the moors. Not a tree or green leaf anywhere to be seen: Hermione felt that, indeed, that desolate location was sure to be the last of her life. A sudden thought made her wonder if the area was haunted, it was so barren and arid, and this led her to wonder also if she could return as a ghost to haunt Voldemort and his nasty brood.

The matron, however, remained as silent and unapproachable as ever, leading Hermione off the bus after tying a very dark blindfold over the girl's eyes. Though Hermione could not explain this at first, she was obliged to let herself be guided by the woman. They stopped and started several times, and some of the low, muttered incantations used by her captor led her to deduce that the blind was to prevent herself from knowing how to disarm the wards. _Quite the security buffs they are. It's not as though my dead body will run off after they're good and done with me, but I suppose I must admire their caution. _

Hermione was no wiser about her surroundings until she felt the body-heated warmth of the manacle release her wrists, and the dark cloth was removed from her eyes. To her great astonishment, she was propelled towards a plain white hospital bed, one bed in a line of ten in the room. About half of these were occupied, and some of the patients were staring at her entrance.

"Hermione! Hermione Granger! My dear!"

One of the patients she recognized to be a school mate from the days before she knew of the magical reality of Hogwarts, a Muggle by the name of Edwina Hale. Her parents had been archaeologists, and so left their young daughter in the care of a strict aunt. Edwina's sense of mischievousness and clever ingenuity had attracted Hermione's friendship, even though Hermione never participated in Edwina's far-fetched schemes. The purpose of most of these was to spring herself into so much trouble that she would have to be sent to boarding school, and when Hermione was given the chance by providence, Edwina was so jealous that she broke off their friendship. Hermione had heard nothing of her old friend since. However, there, in the least auspicious of places, they met again, and were thrilled at it.

"Edwina! My God! I can't believe it's you!"

"I would certainly say the same! Is that blinking woman going to let you off your leash or do you have to go someplace for examinations?"

"Examinations?" The frightful word brought back memories, many memories, of Hogwarts, frantic studying up until the last minute, devious mnemonics, and how hard she worked to help Ron succeed in them. (Which, for the record, at least in her opinion, he did not.)

"Still the paranoid bookworm, I see?" joked Edwina, remembering well Hermione's ambition for good grades. "Well, calm down, it's not _those _kinds of examinations, though I rather wish they were."

"What do you mean?" queried Hermione, wondering what in the world would make her wish she were taking a test, but she had no time to ask for more specifics from her long-lost friend. The matron sighed, dismal as she laid the bedclothes and placed a crisp hospital gown on the pillow. Afterwards, she tugged her quarry out the door,.

"They took away your wand at the prison, if I'm not mistaken?" the woman asked once they were beyond the dormitory room, the first words she had spoken since their encounter hours ago.

"Even supposing they hadn't, would you believe me if I said I still had it?" Hermione quipped, rather annoyed that she had so little time to talk to her friend, and annoyed that she had yet to face having the book thrown at her by Voldemort. She wanted to look at him well, to know what it was she had been cursing in her mind for years, and know exactly how she was to die. She only hoped that it would be slightly better than being drawn and quartered.

The matron grunted in reply.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Hermione soon discovered what sort of 'examinations' Edwina had implied. Blood was drawn, vial after vial, and urine samples were taken by stolid unsmiling nurses, day after day. Bowel movement times were recorded with precision after varying, irregular meals, sometimes very bountiful and rich with fats, sometimes sparse and only of spinach. Sleep schedules were disrupted often, for the purpose of feeding and watering in the middle of the presumed night. The greatest positive bit of the experience was the fact that Hermione did find some time to chat with Edwina and the other inmates. Their main occupation was to propound theories about what they were doing there, since it was evident that they were not to die with guillotine swiftness.

"I imagine they think this is torture, though really you're the only one who would be technically worth the expense since none of us besides you are witches," one girl suggested. "I'm completely bewildered otherwise."

"This might just be an illusion in our minds to drive us crazy," an older woman put forward, "It may have something to do with the communists." That particular lady had a particular obsession with communists, and blamed their entire situation upon them.

"Maybe it has something to do with a charm or spell of some sort," Hermione offered, though she felt that her guesses had little more validity than those proposed by the others.

About two horrendous, unpleasant weeks were spent in the hospital building, Hermione feeling more and more that somewhere, some bureaucrat had made some terrible mistake. Somehow, she had been embroiled in some sort of experiment; her high-profile figure had, by accident, been sorted into those expendable numbers of young Muggle women who were being tested for who knows what.

However, one day, after all the poking and prodding, the ten guinea-pigs of the unknown experiments were offered six unexpected, satisfying and delicious meals in a row and two nights' worth of uninterrupted sleep. The second day of such fine treatment was made even more luxurious by being invited to investigate a full Turkish bath, sauna, and spa. None of the women, upon being asked to participate, gave any resistance, and they took full advantage of the offerings. Once they were assured to be clean, their nurses gave full massages, pedicures, manicures, and cleaned their teeth. Every woman was provided a dress matched to fit their body, as well. The most notable aspect of these dresses, however, was that some of them were very plain, some of them were rather pretty but not elaborate, and Hermione's in particular held top rank as the finest. Edwina in particular commentated on it.

"Well, Hermione, that's definitely the most stylish dress of the lot! You're certainly lucky!"

The young witch shrugged, diplomatic, answering, "I wouldn't be so quick to say I'm lucky, you know."

"It's an excellent color!"

"This sea green? I've never thought so."

"Don't be silly; that's _forest green _not _sea green. _There's a huge difference between them. Sea green has more blue in it, it's more like aquamarine."

"Well, that's not exactly my area of expertise," countered Hermione in a good-natured way. "I actually thought this color was more like the ocean, so I've thought of it as sea green."

"Well, it isn't. Not by international standards. But it's a very excellent satin, too—exceptionally fine fabric."

"You know, I think I'll trade with you though, if you want."

"Really?" Edwina's rising envy was assuaged by the offer. "What for?"

"You think I want to look like an overdressed peacock? Certainly not! I wasn't born into high society, and I don't feel like myself in this dress. I rather like your dark rose cotton, actually. The color is one that suits me better, I think, and I've always had a predilection for it."

"The dress assigned to you is the one you shall wear. It is ordered," declared one of the stiff matrons who was working on Hermione's hair at the present moment.

"Hm. So it seems we are being fattened up for the kill—we're the prisoners being treated well for the last time before our execution," proposed Edwina, half joking, half serious.

None of the matrons within earshot made any move to contradict her or confirm her statement, and so an uneasy laugh erupted between the two friends, like the noise of flatulence after its perpetrator apologized for it in advance.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Hermione and Edwina realized, at this point, that likely they were being prepared for some sort of important interview, perhaps with Voldemort, though Edwina noted the process's similarity to preparing slaves for market. They kept this idea between themselves, not wanting to unduly scare the other women with their speculations, and so they suffered alone. The nervous constriction of Hermione's stomach at the prediction prevented her from eating much at the remainder of their meals, though Edwina boisterously took up her friend's slack.

"If we are going to be slaves," Edwina proposed over the remnants of a rich chocolate mousse, "it won't do but help to eat your fill, as long as this good fortune lasts."

"That's the practical thing to do," Hermione replied, "But I'm afraid the idea of being selected for some bloke's harem--when I so miss Ron!--rather disturbing. I've lost all semblance of my appetite."

Edwina was concerned. "You're sure I can't persuade you to eat?"

"I had some of the asparagus, but I couldn't face anything more."

"Fine, well, if you don't want to finish yours, you might as well pass it over to me—I can bear it."

Sooner than they would have liked, the women were separated into small groups of two or three, along with one matron attending each, and these groups were conducted through the Floo Network to separate destinations. Hermione happened to be paired with Edwina, which she was grateful for, and they were both ushered into the fireplace looking their very best.

"What strange ways of travelling you magic folk have," Edwina declared with a laugh. "I expected we'd be flying by broomstick everywhere, or at least by a flying carpet, but no! First by train, then by bus, and now by fireplace!"

After this comment, however, the girls were separated—to their great laments—and Hermione was put into a windowless room as blank as a recording studio or music practice room. She remained there for about half an hour, pacing with anticipation, knowing it was her _dernier jour de vie,_ and fearing the prospect of pain somewhere near at hand.

A young woman entered after thirty minutes or so, very blonde and very pale, perhaps of Scandinavian descent. She asked Hermione in as kind a tone as she seemed capable, despite her rigid attitude, if she would be so kind as to accompany her out of the room. Knowing the crux of the matter was that she had very little choice, Hermione acquiesced and followed, bracing herself for her oncoming death.

Their journey was short—the pair crossed the hallway. Hermione watched the door of the room open under the guidance of her blonde escort, and she was surprised to see revealed to her a room just the same size as she had left. However, unlike the other, this office was ornate, in such a way that its designer was like a chef who strove to make decaying broccoli and cattle droppings into a sumptuous chocolate cake. _Or_, mused Hermione, _like trying to turn cucumbers into sunshine. _

Thick green velvet curtains and golden fleur-de-lis tapestries decorated the walls, and in the middle of the room was a vast desk. Behind this sat the larger-than-life figure of Lucius Malfoy, poised with a cigar, feet propped on a pile of mismatched books chosen for mere decoration. He raised his eyebrows with interest as the women entered, but said nothing until the Norwegian girl left, blowing a kiss at him as she exited.

"Hermione Granger," he said at last, in the manner she supposed he reserved for scolding house-elves. It was unexpected, at best, because he appeared complacent and almost genial. _I suppose the affairs of such a scum-sucking Mudblood as I, though they cause him to scold, cannot dare to influence his mood. _

"The time has come for you to make a choice. You have two options offered to you: to live and be banned from magic, or to die."

"I will die!" replied Hermione, stiff and resolute. She had not realized that she could have come this far and have a choice in her fate; _very likely whichever one I choose I will end up dead, so may as well irk him by choosing the courageous route. Likely he'll tell me something to the tune of, 'You're such a Gryffindor!'_

Indeed, at this statement Malfoy did lean back into his chair, blowing smoke into the air. Hermione coughed in response.

"Well, that was not so much a choice as a courtesy; I had heard you had Slytherin tendencies, but it seems that my source was mistaken in that surmise. A pity," Malfoy said after a minute of pondering, "For I myself would prefer you dead. The Dark Lord certainly would prefer you dead, being one of Harry Potter's closest friends. But, you selfish, ungrateful child—you will not die. You have a protector."


	2. Chapter 2

_DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. _

_This is the second edition of this chapter, thanks very much to my two glorious betas!_ white-hound _and _Aindel S. Druida, _both of whom have proved invaluable. I appreciate your help!_

**Vie des Poulets**

**Chapter 2**

"What?" asked Hermione, not believing what she was hearing. "A protector?" A sudden alarm seized her. "I will not be dying? But surely—surely I can choose whether—or not—I want to live--or not? Am I not even allowed a choice –any amount of choice--in my own destiny? This—this is outrageous!"

Hermione felt an urge of desperation. Lucius laughed. "Such a droll figure you make, Miss Granger," his hard voice observed. "Of course, you never had any choice in the matter at all. Your to-be husband is your guardian and makes all decisions for you."

"Husband?" This was no worse than anything that she and Edwina had propounded as a possibility, but not what she had expected. _Well, forced marriage is just another form of rape, which is what we essentially predicted. I guess I'm not dreadfully shocked. _

Lucius paid her no heed, instead waving his hand and calling, "Plourde?"

A house-elf magicked, as usual, from nowhere in particular, in response to this call. The so-called Plourde bent at Lucius' feet in the ultimate motion of submission.

"Monsieur Lucius, est-ce que vous avez adressé moi?" whimpered the little scoundrel, in the accepted manner.

"Oui, tu l'amenes ici," demanded the great and terrible man, and Hermione remembered with bitterness her faded SPEW programme as she saw the little fellow whisk off into the woodwork. She tried to remember her old French au pair, who took care of her while her parents were in the office, and the phrases she had learned to get around in France during her trip years agof. To her frustration, she was unable to remember what 'amener' meant, though she had the vague idea that it had something to do with improving something, or fixing something.

She found herself forgetting her puzzlement, however, for a dark presence entered through the door.

"Lucius, hello. Ah, and Miss Granger." Severus Snape gave a curt bow, his heels snapping together in almost a Nazi fashion, and although he omitted any heinous salute Hermione found herself completely at sea—no, she decided as desperation set in, she was beyond that. She was shipwrecked in an ocean near the coast of the South American continent, being assaulted by wild, slimy invertebrates floating on the water.

_Oh. God. No. Please, anyone but him!_

The very way he drew an unruly lock of his dark hair behind his ear was menacing.

_I would do anything if I were to be assured that he was not to be . . ._

She could not even finish with the word 'husband', for the word seemed so alien to the situation, the word seemed only applicable to Ron—poor, dear, sweet, stupid Ron—not in any way the cold, calculating codfish that stood before her.

All fears turned to pure terror in an instant as Lucius jeered, "Take a look at your mudblood, Snape! Is she as you remember?"

"Rather thinner," the dark-haired man commented dryly. "But she is not mine yet, as you well know. May I ask, Lucius," he continued with cool nonchalance, "Where your manners have disappeared to? To my recollection, I thought you were the one who instructed me to 'be civil to ladies you intend to bed'."

"Those are indeed my words," chuckled Malfoy, ignoring the desperation that filled Hermione's Nutella-colored eyes, desperation that blanched her face and whittled her irises until the black core of her eyes predominated them.

"Christ!" she exclaimed, her face the very reflection of terror. She made a motion to step back, based on a fundamental impulse of self-preservation. Her body commanded that she run, but she knew it would be of no use. As it was, Snape's hand reached out to grasp her, but when he saw the danger of her flight was past, he laid his arm down again.

Lucius had the discourtesy to laugh at her astonishment and revulsion, saying, "Severus, I am only a boor with you, and I would be perfectly inconsolable right this moment if this woman were worth more than a few galleons in our new society. As it is, though, I grant you a touché."

_Worth only a few galleons? _Hermione knew her blood made her worthless in Voldemort's eye, but her brain—she would have thought her brain accounted for a bit more than that meager price! Such a quantity of money would only purchase as much as a new copper cauldron!

Snape agreed, with ready apparentness, for he noted: "Lucius, I am an insufferable boor with everyone, but please, for my sake, don't make me into an even worse one in the presence of my future wife and partner." So saying, he extended his hand again, but more gentle than the previous time. It was not a means of force, but a means of conveying a request. His eyes avoided hers, however, and this was too disconcerting. Hermione regarded his appendage—thin and bony, veins protruding, taut skin of a wan color, his knuckles well scarred—and could not help but be more than frightened.

She could not decide who she hated more—the scornful man who thought her no better than a house-elf, or the lusting man who had decided she was going to be his newest wench.

"No," she said, nervous, then repeated the monosyllable louder. "No!" she exclaimed, feeling asphyxiated, as in one of those terrible nightmares where one kicks to no avail, where one cries aloud but no one hears, where one thrashes but with no result. "No!" It built to a scream, but she knew no one would come flying to her aid. Half wishing, half dreaming that Ron might ride in the door any moment to save her, her eyes began to weep without her permission. An uncomfortable jarring in the back of her throat was the culprit, and she alleviated the monster with a heavy sob.

Sinking onto the floor, head in her hands, she was suddenly seized with desperate inspiration. She put her hands to her neck, attempting to find the location of the gland or whatever it was that, with enough pressure, would be the means to her liberation of death.

Snape was over her in an instant, kneeling at her side, drawing her shaking fingers away from their frantic grasping search. "Don't," he pleaded in a whisper, "I beg of you." He did not let go of her hands, which he held with one of his own, behind her back.

She had never heard his voice so gentle, and almost believed she was mistaken in its poignant tone. Looking to Lucius, Hermione could tell that the blond man had not heard the almost kindly tone of the potions master, from his position some feet away from them.

Hermione then felt Snape's free hand on her neck, probably surveying if she had done herself any damage, but the grazing of his fingernail the wrong way in the wrong place irritated her nerves, and her mental alarm began its excited mantra.

"Get away from me!" she exclaimed in response, making an attempt to push the man at her side away with her shoulder.

She succeeded in knocking him onto his side, and she took advantage of his momentary bewilderment and her new freedom to rise and run for the door. Of course, the men were in league together, and Lucius cast a lazy petrification spell at her. Having no physical way to escape such an entrapment at such close range, Hermione could not dodge it.

Snape approached her from behind, obviously a tad irritated that she was putting up so much of a fuss. _Could he have expected anything less from a Gryffindor, though? I'm not exactly the sort that'll just docilely comply with whatever demands are made on me by my elders! _

"I apologize, Granger," Snape said silkily, taking her hands again while freeing her from the spell. "But if you resist, I may be forced to do something you will loathe me for."

"I loathe you as it is!" spat Hermione feverishly.

"So you may," replied Snape almost compliantly, but he kept his heinous promise. As subtly as though her blood was being infiltrated by poison, Hermione felt a chilling, almost sensuous stream of fluid-like vapor rush through her veins. She knew vaguely what it was—Imperius--for she had experienced it cast by a rather less adept wizard in a previous battle. However, she had little practice in resisting them, and certainly she had no chance against such a great manipulator of magic as was her former potions teacher.

She felt, in in instant, her own initial resistance to him melt away, and all desire to make things difficult dissolved. His spell seemed to peel away all conscious will and instead unlocked what felt like her subconscious, though her conscious knew that her subconscious could not possibly be his will. _That's a very old strategy _Hermione thought; she had read all about all the dark curses, and recalled a description of a less-harmful branch of the Imperius. With this spell, instead of purely forcing the conscious victim to succumb, the caster could delve into deeper depths of the victim—supposedly very difficult—and bring to the front of the cursed mind the semblance of what they did not know they wanted. It was all a ruse, of course—but if one is commanded to believe that they love their broccoli so that they eat it of what feels like their own volition, it is mildly better than simply having the broccoli rammed down their gullet.

With this realization, Hermione made a brief attempt at struggling. However, she remembered also that the spell required a skilled legilimens behind it, and from what she knew of Snape, there was no way she could put up half a duel against him. He dropped her hands, stepping gingerly away from her, and she felt them limply fall to her sides.

_He is too good a wizard; Hermione Jean Granger, you have thoroughly met your match with this man._

Then a surge of fright coursed through her, as she realized that it had always been her dream to marry someone even more competent and brilliant than herself, someone she could learn from who was always learning himself. However, this revelation was dispelled by the fact that he was speaking in her mind, commanding her, and his voice sent terrible chills down to her deepest quarters.

_Granger, you are now calm. You may feel hatred and disgust for me, but you must withhold the effects these emotions create for a very short time. Approach me now, with willingness and eagerness in your thoughts, if not your bosom._

Having no real say in the matter, Hermione did as he commanded, staring blankly at the dire visage of the potions master.

"Take my hand, Granger." This Snape said aloud, and Hermione complied without feeling it even remotely strange. There was a superficial but binding obligation to do all that he said, and she knew it would be painful to do anything but obey. She did step forward, she did extend her arm, and she did take his hand gently. Though she could barely register any sensations of her own, she could see clearly at such a close distance the strain in his face, the slight hyperventilating breaths, the almost fanatical grip upon her hand as soon as she offered it.

Hermione reflected with amusement, _Severus Snape is as panicked as I was not minutes ago!_

Though, when she thought this, he glanced sharply at her, and with virile pride he inhaled sharply to straighten his carriage.

_That's right, keep a stiff upper lip, why don't you? _She mocked him with the savage bitterness she felt accumulating again, but understood now that the experience was rather traumatic for him as well as her. Knowing the man who caused her so much suffering was even somewhat vulnerable gave Hermione an acute sense of relief.

Her hand was in his. A coldness seized her, weighting her bones suddenly, and Hermione felt them turn to stone.

She was not paying attention to the particulars of the discourse between Snape and Lucius, but she noticed when he took her other hand in his own and drew her body close to him.

"Ahem. Then let's begin," Lucius suggested, and she heard the creaking of his ancient oak chair, tasted the very brief hint of musk in the air as his derriére vacated the cushion, and she sensed the expensive perfume in her nostrils. This, she was vacantly aware, contrasted very much against the sharp a odorlessness of Snape, who probably used too much or too strong a brand of BO-Go which virtually eliminated the natural scents of living from one's body, much like Muggle deodorant but far more effective.

She also noted of Snape, that he appeared very distraught. His serious, earnest demeanor caught her off-guard; his ever-present sneer had gone fishing for the moment and was replaced by its puritanical brother, who was a set of firm impassive lines. Snape seemed, in short, a lot less like the ugly mean potions master she had come to expect, and seemed more normal. She noted his unexceptional flaws—his boots were tarnished with wear, his cheeks were haggard, and his nails were just slightly grubby—but they too seemed to bring him to a recognizably human level.

It was satisfying, Hermione decided, and almost made him more likable. She became, despite her misgivings, acutely aware that the spell he cast was being alleviated, just a bit. Whether purposefully retracted or accidentally she could not tell. She could, at least, register her own consciousness, though he probably was still well aware of her own thoughts—after all, she was only commenting on his studious eyes a moment ago, and she still was staring profoundly at them.

"Do you know, Snape," Lucius was saying, "I've put on a few pounds lately; rising from that chair seems to become more difficult every day. Is it unflattering, or should I attempt at more?"

"Je ne sais pas. Moi, j'ai maigri" Snape replied sedulously, then turned to look at Lucius with an abrupt toss of his head, drawing his gaze away from Hermione. The young woman felt a sensation akin to whiplash, but mentally, like a post-box with letters blowing inside after the passing of a lorry. He had been in her mind, and she was aware that he was out of it, for whatever reason. She resented that fact, but could not protest against him as she felt his imperius predominate her will once more, strengthening like the tightening of his arm around her shoulders. Hermione felt like she was slowly being suffocated again, but realized she was inherently helpless.

"I do hate that we have to learn French for the Dark Lord," muttered Snape testily, his mood snapping with a surprising suddenness. "Whatever was there wrong with Latin?"

"That was the best suggestion I could come upon when the Dark Lord asked how we might _refine _our circle," Lucius replied complacently.

"Well, that's easy for you to say, since you were brought up trilingual."

"No, actually, more than three languages. My father insisted I learn Russian, even as a child, and I was also taught German and Greek before Hogwarts."

Snape muttered something probably indecent under his breath, then turned back to look at Hermione.

"You said ten minutes ago we were going to get this done and over with," the callous man demanded, "So let's expedite this."

Lucius harrumphed a bit, adjusted his already immaculate robes, and drew his wand from his sleeve.

"The ceremony has been rather simplified, as the revision of the codes is still underway. Snape, you simply respond to what I read to you, and the same for you, _Miss Granger_."

His hissing of her name made Hermione's innards quiver insanely, and a sudden grateful thought spurred her mind: _At least I'm not marrying HIM!_

Snape shook his head just a fraction, which made her suspect her mind was not entirely her own as of yet, but when his hand's already firm grasp constricted just the slightest bit more, just for an instant, she could not help but know it. The surprisingly affectionate gesture was not accidental, she comprehended, and she did not know if she should be nervous on that point.

"Just hurry up, Lucius," Snape said, his voice coming close to snarling.

"Fine, Severus, I know you're anxious. Severus Snape, do you take Hermione Jean Granger, by the will of man and the approval of the Dark Lord Voldemort the Great, of England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales, Lord Protector to her majesty, Minister of Magic, Defender of the Faith, and intend to care for her to the best of your ability throughout her life, so help you Merlin?"

"Yes," Snape replied coldly, and Hermione became acutely aware that his body began to tremble slightly for the seconds while the question was read and a few seconds still after his answer. It was a strange comfort to know she was in the arms of a scared man, especially one twenty years her senior and one who was in a position of power over her.

"Hermione Jean Granger, do you take Severus Snape, to be his loyal wife, lover of no other besides him and, if the need calls for it, the Dark Lord Voldemort the Great, of England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales, Lord Protector to her majesty, Minister of Magic, Defender of the Faith, and intend to bear loyal subjects of –erm, the aforementioned wizard—only from him or your husband, depending on emergency circumstances?"

_So, I'm virtually marrying Voldemort with this ceremony? _Hermione's mind shrieked and writhed in pain and disgust. _Oh hell! Get me out of this! _

_I'm so sorry_, Snape's voice inside her mind whispered. _I can't tell you how sorry I am. _

Nevertheless, Hermione heard her voice answer, calmly, not of her own volition--"Yes.  
. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .


	3. Chapter 3

_DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. _

_This is the second edition of this chapter, thanks very much to my two glorious betas!_ white-hound _and _Aindel S. Druida, _both of whom have proved invaluable. I appreciate your help!_

**Vie des Poulets**

**Chapter 3**

The ceremony was nowhere near over, as Hermione was soon to discover.

Lucius murmured paragraph after paragraph of obsequious material idolizing and glorifying the _Dark Lord Voldemort the Great, of England, Scotland_, etc., which was really just a load of tosh no sane person ought to have been subjected to hearing. However, Hermione had even less power in the situation than Snape, and she could tell, from the pensive chewing of his cheek at every particularly absurd phrase, and the grating of his clenched teeth for the duration of the rest, that he was just as tired as she herself was.

After about half an hour of listening to how the Dark Lord would reign supreme forever, being the first and only immortal man, and other rote phrases completely ignoring the whole point of the marriage, Lucius closed the book and said:

"Well! I guess that's that. Now, Severus, you may kiss the bride!"

Snape looked a bit taken aback, and faltered. He had already let go of Hermione's shoulder, about halfway through the ritual, and now they were separated by about a foot and a half of space, though he still held her hand warily.

"Are you saying that because it is necessary for the sanctity of the marriage, because of tradition, or because you have a perverted old mind and you want to be sure that I would actually kiss what is, in your opinion, no better than the rim of a rubbish bin?"

Lucius sat back in his chair, settling with a contented sigh. "To answer your query," he continued with a slightly salacious grin, "It would definitely be the latter."

_Merlin! That man _is _a perverted bastard!_

That was not Hermione's voice in her mind, however. Snape, as he looked at her, appeared incredibly uncomfortable at the prospect of kissing her. This was surprising, since Hermione was so certain that she had been selected at his discretion for the purpose of being a sort of unpaid whore.

"Come on, Severus!" jeered Lucius in a manner that might have been good-natured, maybe not. "Don't tell me you're afraid of kissing a _woman_? Less than a woman, I daresay, and certainly a lot less than _me—_me, who is descended from royal blood!"

_Wait, what does he mean by that? _Hermione could not stop the question from phrasing in her mind. Then, when she realized what he must have meant, she would have laughed aloud.

_Stay quiet!_

This command, which she had no choice but to obey, did not dispel the peals of laughter that rang in her mind, nor the slight tugging smile which burned her face. _So. You're gay, is that it?_

_Not precisely. But confounded Lucius. Even when he jests, he must remain the lord over all, mustn't he?_

Lucius was laughing his wretched arse off in his chair, for to his eyes he just saw the newly-made man and wife staring at each other in horror.

_Granger, I apologize—this is as much against my principles as it is yours, but you really can't not comply with Lucius. He's that way._

So mentally saying, Snape suddenly closed his eyes, wrapped his arms fiercely around her, and kissed her—long, passionately, and in a highly experienced manner.

Lucius had ceased to chortle, and now resorted to clapping. "Bravo, my man. Bravo. Really, I didn't think you would do it. Your gumption astonishes me."

Their lips were still together, Hermione's mind was reeling. It was a nice experience, sure, but she was very much terrified nonetheless—too much so to respond.

_-Don't leave me like this—might as well be a rag doll. Pretend I'm your bloody Weasley or something. _

_-Why? _As she was still under his command, she really had no choice to comply, but her mind was still free. She began to return the passionate embrace, closing her eyes as well so she did not have to fully remember the person whom she snogged.

_-I had to persuade them I was in bloody fucking love with you, that's why. And the Dark Lord will certainly ask for access to Lucius' memory, since he can't believe I've ever loved a woman. I've half a notion that it was the Dark Lord who requested this experiment himself, actually._

-_Oh? Well, you owe me a bloody fucking good explanation for all this._

_-You deserve no less._

With this, they parted—and Hermione felt his presence leave her mind, though his Imperius was still upon her to prevent her from running away, she expected. Though, reason had returned to her, so she would not have done that anyway. It would have served no use at the moment.

Snape clasped her hand firmly. "The ceremony rather leaves a pertinent action out," he noted mildly, and he graced her wrist with brief kiss. With a characteristically fluid motion, he flourished a small green silk box, faded and slightly frayed with age. Lucius, at its sight, sighed ponderously. Snape made a careful descent to the ground, getting on one knee for the official presentation.

"Oh," Lucius said, overwhelmed with nostalgia, "How I swept poor little Narcissa away with the enormous emerald I bought her for our nuptial hour! Of course, she would never wear it out; it was too ostentatious, she said. But I would say that I've made her wear some things that I certainly would call ostentatious, and, may I say, that ring the least of them."

"Shush," Snape reprimanded, all seriousness, but Malfoy gave one last guffaw. This earned him a vehement glare from Snape, who was not treating the situation as at all humorous. Then, gently, he opened the box.

"Hermione, as my wife, I give you this as a memento of our union." So saying, he drew the box open, revealing a small, elegant diamond surrounded by seven perfect minuscule pearls. The design was floral, with tiny engraved leaves that swayed gently when the ring was removed from the box. The effect was very beautiful, if not expensive. As he drew it, Lucius walked over and stooped irreverently to look at it closely.

"Dainty, but not extravagant," Malfoy sniffed, "And definitely not ostentatious. Almost like something you'd give a girl for her birthday."

"It was my mother's," Snape answered hollowly, gritting his teeth in an attempt not to lash out at his companion. "It holds a great sentimental value, if not a great monetary one. Please do not disparage it. She wore this longer than her wedding ring, which she merely exchanged for this one on the day of my conception, and her consequent engagement. I still hold it sacred."

"I understand, mon ami," Lucius replied affably, almost compassionately. A certain glint in his eye told otherwise.

"I mean it!" growled Snape, turning away from Lucius to face his bride.

Lucius laughed coldly. "Well, it's a shame you're as good as putting it on a sack of potatoes," the millionaire remonstrated, and he laughed again.

_If I were any stupider I'd flatten him, _Snape's thoughts rang through her mind, though at the moment he was staring rather hard at a knot in the floorboards.

Hermione guessed she was not supposed to have heard that, and so responded in order to annoy him: _I appreciate the thought (literally), but are you ever going to let me have my peace of mind or what?_

She flustered him, she could tell, and again she experienced that feeling like a gust of wind as he retreated fully from her mind. This done, Snape shook his locks and stood up. Hermione noticed that he did not put the ring on her finger, putting it back into the case and slipping it back into his pocket.

"I believe we'll be leaving now, Lucius. We have much _business_ to attend to," he said, throwing what would have been a _knowing _glance if not directed at Hermione's earlobe.

Chuckling for the last time that night, Lucius replied, "See you at dinner, if you can spare the time, young fool. Hope you're hungry tonight; I heard we've got a weasel—quite a plump one, so I've heard."

"Utterly disgusting," replied Snape, turning a slightly paler color, and he dragged Hermione to the floo.

"Cheer up, fellow!" chirped Lucius ungraciously as the flames ensconced the newlyweds.

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	4. Chapter 4

_DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. _

_Thanks very much to my two glorious betas!_ white-hound _and _Aindel S. Druida, _both of whom have proved invaluable. I appreciate your help!_

**Vie des Poulets**

**Chapter 4**

They appeared in a simple apartment that appeared to have experienced a sad case of fairy-godmotherism; a shabby beaten floor was covered by a definitely 'ostentatious' carpet, dingy walls were predominantly hidden by vast tapestries depicting wizard lore, and various extravagant pieces of furniture that did not quite match peered curiously at Hermione like portraits of deceased relatives. The only things absent from the room, surprisingly, were actual portraits, which Hermione found gratifying.

"Lucius did some redecorating in here earlier today," Snape explained uninterestedly. "I believe it is rather more to his taste than to mine as he left it. Change anything you like about it—you'll be here long enough, I suppose."

Then, with a motion, he flicked out his wand and withdrew the Imperius curse. Hermione felt life return to her blood, as thick and pulsing as after a severely-strong dose of coffee. As volition seeped back into action, she realized she had been operating completely against her will. No part of her wanted even vaguely to be in the situation, every ounce of blood in her body revolted against the idea of being married to such a man as—_as my old potions teacher!_

"Bloody hell!" she shrieked, wondering if the Imperius had also been a type of amnestic, "What have you done with me?"

Severus Snape had no response. Instead, he leaned disconsolately on the arm of the nearest divan. Only after a moment's pause, during which Hermione backed away from him until she met the wall and an ancient china vase containing umbrellas, did he announce:

"So, I just saved you from death to endure a living hell, in other words."

Never had a man looked more defeated.

Hermione's hand felt the tops of the umbrellas in the jar, touching every head and judging it—one classic wooden J-shaped, one covered in leather with a hilt, one like a demoralized potato, one like the end of a cudgel, one cold metal one with a loop, one with a leather handle like a hexagonal cross-section, and one of steel with an adder's head. _My mind dwells on trivialities in my franticness _she mourned.

Snape did not say anything else, but was eyeing her in a surly manner, attempting haughtiness in such a way that she knew _he knew _that he ought to be groveling at her feet. Nevertheless, he tried to hold his stance, with pathetically slumped shoulders and hands perched on either side to support himself. It instantly made him more noxious and malignant and revolting.

At that moment, Hermione could not have done but what she did—pounce upon him with the ferocity of an affronted female with intention to tear him to bits. Only, in her hand, she held her chosen weapon from the umbrella vase—the umbrella with the end like a cudgel. It was, as she saw it, not really an umbrella at all, but some contraption made of bamboo and hardwood, but she dared not retreat to draw another, more potentially fatal choice.

She was almost surprised to land the whack upon his head, she so expected him to spin around, draw his wand, and open in combat. However, he did nothing, and her stealthy and well-aimed attack succeeded in landing her quarry. He slipped down to the ground, and she sternly surveyed the damage.

Hermione, until this day, had never hated Snape. Their dislike of each other had been mutual until the day he killed Dumbledore and confirmed himself as being on the side of evil, and then her disliking had turned to a horrified terror combined with loathing. Yet, now, after the injurious actions of the day, she could not say any more but that she absolutely hated Severus Snape, more than she ever had before that day.

After realizing the full extent of the damage she had inflicted upon another human being, she was so spent that she merely collapsed into a heap, dropping the strange bamboo utensil and sobbing her eyes out of their sockets. Snape looked about as good as dead, lying on the floor, and, to all Hermione's hopes, he was. If he were dead, then eventually she could either escape, or be killed for the great offense of murdering one of the Dark Lord's favorites.

Rationality returning to her, she sopped up the last few tears she had shed and stood for the purpose of finding Snape's wand. If she had any chance of escaping, it was with that instrument. Searching his pockets revealed it, tucked away in the usual left-hand pocket, not even partially drawn to aid himself against her. Noting this fact carefully and feeling more than a mite guilty at this concept, she surveyed the rooms around her.

There were doors, and she explored them, but there were no windows in any of the rooms of the suite. As a total, there were three bedrooms—one with a very large bed, which was evidentially Snape's room, and two with moderate-sized beds, one of which was done up as if for her. There were even clothes in the closet in her size. At least, she mused with a pang of pity, he had not been expecting to sleep with her that night.

The flat was spacious, but she noted there was no real functioning kitchen or even kitchenette, the closest to it being a small liquor bar. This did have a sink and glasses, along with every imaginable wizarding alcoholic concoction from Goblin-made wine to plain firewhiskey to 'Cognac du Digirideu', which absolutely mystified her. There was also a small room with an expert potions laboratory and walk-in pantry for ingredients, but there was no proper place to create or consume food.

There was a dining table, sure, with places set for four. Curious, Hermione drew back every drapery in the room, wondering if there was perhaps a concealed chamber for food preparation, but discovered instead a queer sort of apparatus that Hermione recognized from books as being a dumbwaiter. The dumbwaiter discovery tickled her imagination, especially because this was a new possible way of escape. She attempted to squeeze into it, but to no avail unless she wanted to break a few ribs. She was very skinny, but the dumbwaiter had only just enough room to conceal perhaps a row of five chickens on platters. It was very long, but not very spacious. After much wholehearted effort on her part, she decided it would not do, and she had to return to where Snape lay prostrate on the floor.

Thus, the only real entrance to the apartment was apparently through the floo, but using the floo would probably alert Voldemort to her activities if the monitors got suspicious. She was aware that the usual modus operandum for monitoring the Floo Network, from _The Ministry, A History, _was by body weight and size, but who was to know if the Death Eaters would use that system still?

In any case, it would probably be best to carry Snape along with her, so that even if traveling by herself would cause suspicion in the floo, she would have a registered member (or so she assumed) who was high in the good graces of the Dark Lord, whom they would dare not question. She probably would be able to manage just fine, though she realized very quickly there was another problem.

Where would she go? She could only think of one relatively secluded and safe place: Aberforth's Hog's Head in Hogsmeade. Even if Aberforth was dead—very likely, since he was Dumbledore's brother—she doubted she would be noticed if she entered with a dark cloak and hidden face. After dropping Snape there, she could disapparate somewhere remote and begin collecting an underground to bring back normality . . .

Her musings were broken when Snape stirred—not a good deal, he merely opened his eyes, gasped as if suffocating, and and then lapsed back into unconsciousness. She had not killed him after all. Somewhat chagrined at not having completed the job properly, somewhat less tense at the prospect that she had never yet killed a man or woman in her life, Hermione stood to gather any items she thought might prove practical for her escape.

A daggerlike letter-opener from his desk for a weapon, a needle and thread from his bedroom closet, one of the multitude of black capes from the closet next to the umbrella-vase . . .

She then drew out the other umbrellas from the vase to look at them, and was rather surprised to see the only one that actually _was _an umbrella was the one with the end like a nasty potato. The J-handled one was a cane with, she noted, a sword concealed inside, like in the movies. (The only reason she discovered its secret was because it had not been properly fastened after its last usage.) The viper-headed one was also a cane. The bizarre-handled one like a cylindrical cross-section was, in fact, a samurai sword, the metal one was a foil for fencing, and the leather handle with a hilt was in fact . . . _the Sword of Gryffindor from Dumbledore's office!_

"Oh dear God," she exclaimed, "Why would Snape have this?"

She honestly half expected Snape to wake up in that instant and say something derogatory, but he refused to comply.

"I'm sure it's not my problem. However, I'll take it with me. He's no Gryffindor, and I am. He doesn't deserve it." Hermione tended to talk to herself when she was alone, and this time was no exception. "Well, if there's no food anywhere, then I suppose I'm ready," Hermione said nervously. She still did not like the idea of traveling in the unknown, hiding and running for who knows how long, without anything to keep her strength.

_Why the hell is there no food in this place?_

There was really no solution she could discern. Thinking about food made her hungry, despite her filling breakfast that morning, and so spurred by that she decided to make one last trip around, methodically checking in every room for any semblance of nourishment.

Nothing in his bedroom, though she ransacked it. Nothing in the pink room, which was turned and ready for her, nor the rather drab extra room. Not a closet went unexamined, and she even went through his potions laboratory, though it was so neat that she could see immediately her searching in there was thoroughly unnecessary.

The last place was the bar. When everywhere else proved barren, Hermione decided to pilfer some bottles of liquor. _Alcoholic beverages have a lot of calories, and if I'm starving I'll have wished I grabbed at least one of them._

Simply grabbing haphazardly was not a wise choice, however, so she carefully sorted through the entire three shelves of beverage. To her gratification, she found many types with comparatively low alcohol contents, though she was irked when she discovered that none of them displayed a nutrients label, so she could not see the number of calories per serving in each. Of the low alcohol liqueurs, she went about choosing ones that smelled as sweet as possible, though she had to admit that she tasted a little from the rim on some. Unfortunately, all of those which she selected seemed to have been opened already, save a few uncouth types of beer that she would not have touched even if she could read the foreign labels.

Choosing the most full ones that met her stringent standards, and commenting to her self in a disgusted manner on the great number of empty bottles and jars under the counter—_Imagine, I've just about been stuck with a drunkard!--_she wrapped these carefully and placed them in her satchel. Then, with curiosity, she looked at what the jars all read, and to her joy they all read, more or less, _olives. _

_Snape, a martini person? _She would have named him as one who would not have deigned to explore such feminine drinks, more likely to assert his masculinity with simple steak-and-kidney pie accompanied by no-nonsense firewhiskey. Maybe, she wagered, he might try an occasional Muggle whiskey, or even scotch or rum on occasion, but a martini? She could only imagine a man with a martini in 007 movies. _Shaken, and not stirred._

Remembering, though, that she had not seen anything that seemed pertinent to cocktails or martinis—though, granted, she was not the type to frequent bars, and thus she knew little about drinks—she supposed that maybe he just had an insane predilection for them. She did search thoroughly under the counters for potential foodstuffs, and to her great joy she found no less than forty jars of olives yet untouched. Sitting pathetically next to them were one dusty, unopened bottle of gin and vermouth each.

She had to laugh at the sight. _He just really likes olives, I guess. But I'm sure he can get more where those came from._

She had no hesitation about taking half his stock along with her, and would have emptied the shelf entirely if not for the fact that her bag would have burst.

Then, she decided, she was ready to drag Snape into the floo and make her escape.

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	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: I'm not kidding when I say that I'm not J.K. _

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

****

**Vie des Poulets**

**Chapter 5**

"Are you feeling better?"

The words made Hermione stop in her tracks, tracks so stealthy that she was not paying attention to the man whom she was trying to escape. Her eyes swiftly jumped to the man, who emerged from the lavatory with a wet cloth against his skull where she had hit him.

"I daresay I'll have to teach you how to wield a weapon better, that was some sorry bludgeoning, my dear."

Thinking more with her hands than her brain, Hermione drew his wand and pointed it at him. "Keep away from me!" she insisted.

With a small, supercilious smile, Snape put his hands in the air. "Granger, before you go off and make a beautifully orchestrated escape of yahooly foolish proportions, may I have a word?"

"You certainly may not!" Hermione exclaimed, but before all the words were out, a simple wandless _expelliarmus _sent Snape's wand flying back into his own hand. "Damn you!" she screeched in response.

Snape shrugged. "It would also behoove you to learn wandless magic, my dear. But you should have learned by this time that with this government, any question _you _may be asked is only perfunctory. Nobody gives a whit what you think, despite your academic and intellectual virtuosity."

The way he said 'this government', along with his backhanded compliment, made Hermione pursue the line of thought that perhaps he was not so fond of the new order of things as she had presumed. This idea was further reinforced as he gestured in a tired manner towards the horsehair couch opposite him. "However, things are just a shade less dire than you might think."

Her interest was piqued, though her trust was not won. Standing defensively, Hermione granted her captor the most sublime of sneers that she could muster. "Explain," she demanded callously.

"I would love to," Snape replied, his voice respectful, "However, it would be much more comfortable for both of us if you took a seat."

Seeing who had the upper hand, Hermione consented, flopping down on the couch in the most insolent of manners.

"I never said I would rule my personal domain with the kind of iron control that our lovely new government endorses, however, so if you would prefer to stand, I will fully understand."

He was enigmatic. _He doesn't want to control me, but he wants me to do just as he says. What kind of nut case have I married?_ Sitting a little straighter, Hermione shook her carefully-shaped curls.

"I'm fine as I am."

Snape sadly smiled again. "You are not. Your wrists and neck are pulsing, your eyes hold hatred, and your toes are clenched even in your delicate shoes. I know that the circumstances must mandate a certain amount of fear and distrust, but surely you can see by now that I have no intention of hurting you?"

"I can't be so certain of that."

He switched the hand that applied pressure to his forehead wound with the opposite one as he mediated upon an answer. "I don't know what you went through, Miss Granger--"

Hermione sneered. "It's Mrs. Snape now, by the way. You do my _husband_ disrespect."

The aforementioned husband looked slightly pained. "Your husband, whom I ought to mention is not really your husband, is a wretched sod who is completely unworthy of you. Nothing he does could ever recompense you for his breach of your individual will. But soft!" He appeared to have remembered something, and he quickly started throwing charms in a practiced fashion around them. When a Cone of Silence had been established--Hermione could see a thin bubble-like film encompassing them as a result of his work--he explained, "I forget, the walls have ears. Have you, perchance, ever read 1984? George Orwell?"

She nodded, instantly recognizing what he meant. "Oh God."

He looked at the table. "Then you recognize the environment we're in. Even I, one of Voldemort's most trusted, cannot ensure my total and complete privacy. I only hope my words from before . . ." He shook his head vigorously. "No, I don't think I said anything too damning. The fools on the monitors probably don't understand sarcasm anyway."

Hermione's fear factor was tripled. "So they can hear every word we say, watch whatever we do?"

He nodded. "Within and without reason. Can't even be sure the loo's private--there are a number of perverts down there at the monitor station who probably keep tabs on people's private business. Anyhow, this modified bubble-head charm, plus a few others of my own derivation, have proven an efficient safeguard. We can't use them more than once in a while, though. Despite this, we're fortunate--the common man cannot cast unapproved spells and charms without getting a whole team of HAAs on their tails."

"HAAs are . . .what exactly?"

Snape sniffed. "Honest Age Aurors. Everything's got Honest Age tacked onto it these days. Honest Age Floo System. Honest Age Government. Honest Age Wireless. Honest Age Warfare. Honest Age Ministry. I'm an Honest Age Warrick, which is essentially a head ambassador and negotiator. But as I said, since our favorite Dark Lord took over, it's been all about the Honest Age in which Wizards and Muggles can live and work alongside each other. The only honest thing about it, though, is the fact that it's selectively honest in the best circumstances. Most of it is flat-out lies. I can tell you this from deep knowledge--I'm pretty much the equivalent of Neville Chamberlain to the Dark Lord."

It was clear at this point, however, where his sympathy lay.

"But you don't want this system to exist," Hermione inferred, feeling enormously relieved.

"No more than I want Vladimir Putin to harness his people with a sick kind of communism emulating Stalin's, the imperiused George Bush to enslave helpless millions in the poverty of South America and the Middle East, or China to go imperialistic on Asia and Australia. We've got it relatively good here in what used to be jolly old England, compared to the strife in the rest of the world today. Despite the fact that there's not even the semblance of individual liberty any more. After England fell . . . well, her fall was a catalyst to infect the whole world with nonsense."

His eyes darted back and forth, and he suddenly sighed. "It's a relief, let me say, to be able to voice these thoughts aloud. Officially, it's treason."

Hermione nodded, understanding. "So what are you doing?"

Snape shook his head. "First and foremost--trying to survive, staying on the Dark Lord's good side while I'm at it."

"But to . . . oh God, this sounds ridiculous . . . what are you doing to save the world?"

At least he had a mild sense of humor; he snorted. "Let's just say . . . while it seems that I'm doing nothing but furthering the extent of the craziness, I have already begun to enact plans for salvation. I'm not insolent enough to compare myself to God, but metaphorically speaking, I've already told Noah to build the arc and I'm holding my breath until the seas rise."

He frowned. "Even this allusion is treason--all religion besides worship of the Dark Lord is forbidden. He's become a kind of Pharaoh. It's sickening."

"Oh dear."

Hermione had mellowed a lot by now, and she realized that any attempt to escape really would have been fruitless. She sighed.

"So, well, I imagine I'm going to be part of all this?"

He nodded. "Of course. Why do you think I married you? Believe me, it's not because I'm in need of some whore, though that was one of the primary motivations I gave to convice the Dark Lord."

Hermione understood. "Oh, well, I am somewhat relieved. I really had no idea. I--I'm sorry for coshing your brain in."

Snape waved it away easily. "That's all right. I quite deserved it, for taking such liberties with your mind. And . . . kissing you without any permission. And because I'm a generally low-down bit of scum anyway."

She did not bother to reply to this, instead pursuing, "So, what plan do you have for me? What can I do?"

Snape looked her directly in the eye. "You, my dear Miss Granger, are going to be the queen of England. Jean I."

Her jaw dropped. He had said that he was a high-ranking official, but she had not supposed he had _that _much power.

"I'm being completely serious. Queen Elizabeth II, God rest her soul, is dead. I believe it was heart attack. Her family has been murdered. Except you."

Her eyes widened. "I think you're making a mistake; I'm not related to the Queen! Christ, if I were, do you think my parents would be dentists?"

Snape sighed. "You miss my point. Whether you are really royalty or not is irrelevant--the main thing is, you're a witch, you're intelligent, and you're young. You are to claim inheritance of the throne through cousinhood, and assume all of her responsibilities."

Hermine balked. "Voldemort would never agree to this, would he?"

"Of course he would, and he has." A smug smirk rose on his face. "You forget that I can be unusually . . . persuasive."

_What? Have I forgotten something? _"I don't think I knew, sir."

The 'sir' bit just slipped out--she had not seen him since her days at school, where he was her teacher and demanded the respect of such.

His smirk died. "True, you never earned yourself much detention in the dungeons. Neville in particular found it quite different, though." He shrugged. "Well, no matter. The point is, our favorite Dark Lord is not truly as formidable as you might think, though I would never allow him to realize it. But don't ever call me 'sir'--it must be Severus from now on."

He looked at the clock on the mantel. "We're almost out of time. We run out of air quickly in this bubble. Before we resume the life of 'loving husband and wife', I want to let you know that our union, as solidified today, is not, in my opinion, a true or honest one. Hence why I did not put the ring on your finger. When and if you like, I would not be averse to making it official under God, but that rigmarole we endured today was in no way a marriage. Please, Miss Granger, do me the honor of at least considering it partnership of a way. A business relationship, possibly a friendship, but we will have no need to exchange any physical affections."

Hermione nodded. "That's fine."

Snape nodded in return. "Excellent. One last thing--don't eat the food they give you."

Sensing her throat tightening--_We're running out of air--_Hermione asked, "Why?"

"It's modified to supersaturated calorie content--will make you horrendously obese. Tons of MSGs so you'll be inclined to eat too much of it." He, apparently, was feeling the effects of limited air, too, due to his briefer syntax. "Yours is not to question why, get the drift?"

"Fine, I won't ask why. Do you know?"

"Not sure. Theories, but not sure. Just don't eat much. You found the olives--feast to your heart's content, I get them wholesale. Stay skinny. Only hope."

Hermione was puzzled and had more questions, but she could not breathe any more, Snape was starting to turn blue, and she suspected she was too, so he started to let down the charms. However, he was not fast enough, for suddenly everything turned black . . .

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Please review, it would make me very happy and make me update more often.


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: I'm not kidding when I say that I'm not J.K._

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**Vie des Poulets**

**Chapter 6**

Severus laid out the limp figure of the girl on the lush pink chenille bedspread and hastened to clog her nostrils with a bottle of ambergris. The potent substitute for a smelling-salt woke the frizzy-haired teenager with an epitomical start.

"Ah!" she gasped, and Snape smiled coldly.

"Now we're even. But let's not come to further blows, shall we? I should hate to have a relationship akin to that of the Three Stooges, sans one."

"Of course," agreed the faint-hearted girl vaguely, still shaken by her near-asphyxiation escapade.

"And I'm sorry, I did not mean to hurt you," he continued, gently helping her sit up against the high stack of pillows on the bed. Droopily, Hermione could do no more than nod. Having the wind knocked out of her left her utterly (though temporarily) incapable of anything.

At this point, he leaned towards her, in an almost sexual manner, but then whispered quite faintly in her ear: "Going to see about disabling some of the cameras etcetera on the basis that we don't want puerile observers. Will quell as many as possible." Then, standing straight, he took her hand, touched it tenderly to the bridge of his nose, and left the room. Hermione heard the door of the flat close behind him.

Left to her own devices, Hermione could not stir. The new light upon the situation was penetrating, and she had now amassed an incredible piece of news. _Me, queen of England! What on earth! It's crazy, absolutely crazy! Not as though I'll have a ton of political clout--but say, that is a lot of financial power! Not to mention respect and prestige!_ Never in a thousand years would she have contemplated the possibility of her being in such a state.

_Now is the time for me to take all the things I've told myself 'if I were in charge...' and do them, _she thought, _for better or for worse. _She then began to dwell upon her favorite Machiavellian question, _Is it better to be feared or to be loved when in power? Voldemort seem to think it's best to be feared, and I think that's to his detriment. To not have love is to be unwhole. Which, it's already been proven that Voldemort is unwhole; he split himself literally up in pieces with the whole Horocrux thing. To show so little regard to one's own self must be indicative of any observer that he thinks no more of anyone else. He'd indifferently, coldly, gladly split up any subordinate's soul--if he could endure it, why, anyone could! Or at least everyone else deserves no less than that suffering. I really wonder if he's started horocruxes with anyone else. _Immediately, her mind went to Snape.

_But no, that's ridiculous. Why, the splitting of one's soul is what leads to immortality--of a kind--and would Voldemort risk the splitting of anyone else's soul as competition? Followers of a powerful personality are a dime a dozen. There would be no need for him to produce eternal followers. Except, perhaps, those who are more talented than others. _Again, her mind went to Snape.

_So let's requalify the question _Hermione decided, _Point one: __How does Voldemort view the splitting of the soul? As an ultimate kind of suffering (negative), as the ultimate test of endurance (positive), or as both (positive/negative)? Point two: what action does this view entail? _

She thought about that for a minute or two, then began to construct a mental outline.

_A. Splitting eq. Negative_

_ a. Entails?_

_B. Splitting eq. Positive_

_ a. Entails?_

_C. Splitting eq. both_

_ a. Entails?_

At this point, she remembered that she was originally trying to answer the question, _Is it better to be loved or feared_, and so she made revisions to that effect.

_A. Splitting eq. Negative_

_ a. Entails splitting eq. punishment, which eq. demonstration of fear for more effective rule, which eq. Pro Fear and Con Love._

_B. Splitting eq. Positive_

_ a. Entails splitting eq. honor, which eq. demonstration of honor for self and/or others, which eq. Pro Love and Con Fear._

_C. Splitting eq. both_

_ a. Entails splitting eq. both honor and punishment, which eq. both use of fear and love in rule, which eq. Pro Love and Pro Fear. _

She then added a last tier.

_D. Splitting eq. Neither_

_ a. Entails splitting eq. neither honor nor punishment, which eq. neither love or fear in rule, which eq. Con Love and Con Fear._

It was at this point, however, that she got bored of this exercise, and drifted to a well-deserved sleep.

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She awoke with the burst of light that accompanied the opening of her bedroom door. Hours had passed, and the natural light had abandoned her, from whatever source it came from. Her bedroom was incredibly black, save for the brightness that shone in from the bit of the living room that she could see. Her dark-haired 'husband' was looking in upon her.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he said in a muted tone. "I've brought rations, though, if you're hungry. _Si tu_ _as faim_" he added in afterthought, to practice his French.

"Olives?" Hermione remembered his entreaty not to eat anything but.

"And some maraschino cherries. I personally detest them, but brought some on the chance that you like them."

"I do, actually. But not necessarily in mass quantities."

"Do you intend to get up?"

Hermione considered. Her drowsiness was ebbing at the prospect of food, though she was unhappy at the idea of nothing but cherries and olives.

"Do you have coffee?"

"Yes."

Hermione stiffly moved her legs off the bed. She had slept like a log, and her joints cracked when they moved due to her inflexible period of insensibility. "I'll be coming."

"Fine."

With that indication, Snape waved his wand, which lit the lights in her chamber, and closed the door discretely.

After a brief stop at the loo, Hermione took off the fancy dress she had been wearing since who knows when, and instead put on a gauzy muslin dress from the closet that she perceived to be apportioned to her. She would wash in the vast bathtub after something to eat.

When she left her suite, she heard the drizzling of a coffee-maker in the living room, and found Snape pounding with a well-used mortar in the laboratory.

"Sparrow meat," she surmised, squinting at the thin tenderized strips that he was grinding with spices.

"Get used to small fowl," he said rather testily. "Pigeon is only marginally better."

Though she said nothing, her silence spoke for her disgust.

"Be glad there are no house-elves around, before you start squawking."

At this, Hermione's stomach dropped. Would he really go to such lengths?

"That was a joke in rather bad taste," he apologized quickly, then, as if in attempt to distract her, he muttered, "Oh! For the love of god, I'm so glad to be able to cook with the lights on!"

Hermione looked around, trying not to think of the large globe eyes of house-elves floating in a bowl of stew. "I imagine the surveillance upon us has been significantly reduced?"

"A couple hundred galleons later, a promise of a safer future for the superintendent's children, and we are in the clear."

"Completely?"

"Completely. Though the reports are still being filled out for inspection by inquiring minds, they are being completely bullshitted."

Hermione sighed, though was surprised at his profanity. "That's excellent!"

"Mostly. That's just the Interior Monitoring Service that's been lifted. I've had an inkling for a while that that could be infiltrated, since the cracking of one lower bungling idiot some months ago. I suppose when one is living with people all the time, violating their every privacy, one must realize the inhumanity of the regime at large."

"So wait. Are they just lifting the monitors for our flat, or for everyone?"

Snape shook his head, and sneezed over his shoulder. "Oh, no, I wish it could be for everyone, but as it stands, only us and a few other allies have been protected from the spies."

"So who are these allies?"

Putting down the pestle and tipping the ground sparrow-meat into a broth that boiled in a heated cauldron, Snape remarked, "Some of them you may know, some of them you know under different names, and some of them you don't know at all. That's all I can say, really. All in all, they number near fifty households, and include, among others, that of the Weasleys (what's left of them, anyhow), the Longbottoms (all two of them), the Abbotts, the Tonks, and the Blairs. At least, those are the ones you're most familiar with."

"Oh, what Weasleys are alive?"

Snape shrugged. "Percival Weasley is the alpha male of the clan, now."

"Ugh. I don't want to deal with Percy for a while; Ron has biased me against him" Hermione commented dryly, then inquired, "However, the Blairs you refer to are the family of the late Prime Minister?"

"That's right."

"I see." Hermione digested this information. "So, you said that we still have others to deal with besides the interior monitoring people. What do these others number?"

"Your questions are beginning to irritate me. That's seven in the past five minutes."

"Please?"

Snape sighed, and Hermione could tell that his jaw was clenched. "Besides the Interior Monitor Service there is, in our vicinity, the London Home Food Company (which is not a company at all but a government organization), the Sewage and Sanitation Cooperation (which is easy to evade, just don't put non-edibles or medications down the toilet and we are scott-free in their books), the Honest Age Floo Network (which limits conversations and transportation and such), and the Station for Unpatriotic Activities (which only tunes into conversations when the V-word is pronounced). There are a number of others that the common man must deal with, additionally, such as the China Cup Communications Commission which monitors the volume of decibels in homes to prevent 'noise pollution', the Garden Act Commission that makes certain that people with yards keep them nice and tidy, and a good many others. One thing that I can say for this government--there's jobs aplenty for every able body."

Hermione could tell, at this point, that Snape was getting sarcastic and unpleasant, but there was a question in the back of her brain that had been nagging her since she woke up.

"Prof--, erm, Severus, may I ask, why aren't we allowed to prepare our own food?"

He said nothing, but as he was chopping olives, it became clear that the force he utilized was more than he needed. Hermione noticed multiple scars on his left fingers, as though he spent a lot of time chopping angrily in the dark.

Maybe he had not heard. Hermione asked him again. "Why aren't we allowed to cook?"

She received no answer.

"Is there a reason that we aren't--"

"--I heard you, now shut up."

Hermione, though she lacked patience, did so. Fastidiously, he continued in the preparation. Finally, as he dumped the little green bits into the cauldron, he remarked, "It's complicated and nasty."

"How much so?"

"So much that I don't want to talk about it."

And that, as Hermione realized, was that. When Severus Snape was pestered and flustered, and particularly hungry, he clammed. He did not, in essence, respond well to being bombarded with questions.

Dinner was nothing more than the thin _soup de piaf _as prepared before Hermione, with the maraschino cherries. Severus did prepare breakfast 'bread' afterwards, using the sopping coffee grounds from his morning coffee, a decent amount of sugar and cream that, he explained, was sold for coffee, and a single egg from a carton of Mixed Quail Eggs which were commonly used in potions. These were mixed, and the result was baked in a clean, warm cauldron for two hours, and it served as a decent-tasting cake in the morning for breakfast.

"Flour is very expensive, and rather hard to get; it is used so little except as a thickening agent in potions that it is nearly impossible to purchase in any respect save in the smallest of quantities. Crushed sporophytic grains are far cheaper, are easier to produce, and are universally acknowledged to work just as well. The only time this would be a hindrance to anyone is in the preparation of food--even spores from ferns are distinctly disgusting to the taste."

They had drunk the broth from red mixing bowls, which Snape assured her were colored so to prevent him from using them in proper potion production, and everything was washed and dried and put away at this point. The maraschino cherries had also been eaten, from the jar, as they were.

"So," Hermione began to query again, "We're simply not supposed to prepare our own food."

"That's right."

"But _why? _Won't you tell me now?" She sensed that once Snape had eaten, he was a lot less a bear. "I see that you can get coffee, and potions ingredients, and things to make drinks, but why can't you get proper foodstuffs?"

"Because we are supposed to eat what we are served."

"And what is this?"

"Two minutes, and you can see for yourself."

Good as his word, the clock above the door to the laboratory struck four o'clock, and as it did, a delicate bell chimed in the dining room. Hermione looked to Severus, and his lips were drawn. Without a word, he walked out of the laboratory.

There was a golden hue about the dumbwaiter in the dining room, and it was towards it that Severus walked. As she approached, Hermione could smell the faint aroma of buttered croissants, warm chicken cordon bleu, aromatic cheeses, and a fine red wine. Instantly, she was salivating; dinner had been scant, and now the smell of really good food was tempting.

Snape, however, seemed not to be affected. In the most businesslike of manners, as though he were dealing with a nuisance of a brat, he opened the dumbwaiter, pinched the edges of an enormous tray, and carried it to the table.

It was the most beautiful food that Hermione had ever seen. Her nose had not deceived her; chicken cordon bleu, croissants, and cheese were on the enormous platter, but these were supplemented by a gorgeous array of fine meat-and-cheese pastries, little sandwiches, chocolate eclairs, and a concentration of Belgian chocolates that resembled little tanks surrounding the border of France.

"Fuck this French crap."

It seemed to get Snape really seethingly angry, and without a word, he pitched the tray upside-down with wandless magic, letting the food splatter on the fine hardwood table. Then the dumbwaiter behind him glowed once more, and a large bowl of chocolate mousse materialized within it, only this landed upside-down on the carpet.

After this demonstration of ire, however, Snape was immediately apologetic. "God, Granger, I'm making a total ass of myself. Just, don't touch this, all right?"

He had to pull his wand from his sleeve and cast quick spells to clean up the mess. Hermione watched, wishing all that food had not been spoilt. If it had not, she might have forgotten his warning and grabbed an eclair or two.

After putting all the food--some squashed, most of it past the ten-second-rule--back in a congealed mass on the platter, Snape marched it to the loo, where he dumped as much of it was decent into the toilet, and flushed it multiple times until all the food had disappeared down the pipes.

"_That _was just supposed to be afternoon tea," Snape said when he emerged from the bathroom. Hermione's jaw dropped.

"Oh, and you know what was in those meat pastry things? The ones you were so coveting?"

Hermione's eyes widened. "House-elves."

Snape's face momentarily tightened, but then he laughed bitterly.

"No, Granger. Human flesh."

She had snagged one that had rolled in her direction, and when he missed it, she had immediately stuffed half of it in her mouth. Now, a moment later, she felt dreadfully sick.

"You ate it already? Oh, for Merlin's sake."

There was no time to move anywhere but down; her knees buckled and she fell to the floor, expunging the only cannibalic delicacy she ever had tasted.

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